


Cold

by claro



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Attraction, Hallucinations, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 22:51:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6213349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claro/pseuds/claro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Greg gets injured on the job it's Mycroft Holmes who comes to his rescue. As always. Except it's not Mycroft. It's never really Mycroft.</p><p>Is it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Based on true events.

Trying to climb across the roof had not been the smartest thing Greg Lestrade had ever done. But even so, he hadn't expected it to give way beneath him, plunging him into the abandoned shop below. He'd dragged himself to the door only to find it locked and no amount of throwing his weight against the steel shutters was helping his escape.

His mobile was long gone, along with his wallet thanks to the pick pocket he'd been chasing at the time, and fuck knows where Donovan was now. She'd been racing ahead of him like a greyhound and he'd lost her three streets back.

Soaked through from the storm and with no way to contact anyone, Greg gingerly eased himelf down in a corner, his ankle already swollen and throbbing in pain from where he landed badly. It would be just his luck if the bloody thing was broken again. It had never fully recovered from a bad tackle in his university days.  So it was cold, tired and in pain that Greg Lestrade leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, waiting until morning for someone to walk past within shouting distance.

*

Hands tugged at Greg's wet clothes and his coat was yanked off his arms and thrown away from his body.

''s my coat,' he mumbled in protest.

'I'll buy you another one,' an impatient voice said as something heavy was draped over him, smelling of oranges and wool and cigarettes. He blinked blearily at the figure beside him as it pulled him closer, arms wrapping around him.

'Was wond'rin when you'd show up.'

'Were you now?' the voice said, and Greg nodded.

'Hmm,' was all he managed as he burrowed against the other man's warmth, 'Cold.'

'I'm not surprised,' the voice was disaproving with the faintest trace of worry.

'Can't you make it warm?'

'The ambulance will be here soon,' was the only response.

He laid his head against the warm, solid shoulder and closed his eyes again, 'Okay.'

'No, no,' a pale hand shook him awake again, 'You can't sleep, not yet.'

'But I'm tired.'

'I know. But not yet. Okay.' There was a pause and then the voice spoke again, 'Tell me something.'

'Like wha?'

'Anything...how did we meet? Do you remember that?'

Greg nodded, his head feeling heavy, 'You kidnapped me.'

'I did not!'

'Did,' Greg mumbled, fighting to stay awake, a tiny part of his mind still lucid enough to know that if he fell asleep now he probably wouldn't wake up again, 'Was kinda sexy.'

'....really?'

Somewhere in the distance was the sound of sirens.

'Hmm,' Greg nodded again, his eyes closed, 'Couldn't say that if you were really here. You'd have me deported.'

'I am really here.'

''s wha you always say,' Greg smiled, 'Never true though. Never really you.'

There was a silence then that was just as suddenly filled with running footsteps and more hands lifting and pulling at Greg, wheels on rough concrete and someone shouting something. His head lolled towards the corner one last time, his eyes only half open, the figure he thought was there an indistinct shape in the darkness. And then his eyes drifted shut and he forgot everything.

*

Acute hypothermia.

Donovan went off on one and yelled at him for a good hour when he was consious again, not that Greg took any of it in. Yes yes, he knew he was lucky. Four hours soaking wet in the dead of winter. And that was before he even thought about his ankle.

It was almost a week before the doctors were willing to risk surgery, not entirely sure his body would cope with the shock. He didn't help things by talking in his sleep and muttering about 'the man' almost constantly during the first few days.

'What man?' the doctors had asked.

'Man in the shop.' he'd mumbled, his mind still foggy, 'Called an ambulance.'

'It was a woman called it in,' Donovan told him, 'Said she heard you shouting.'

Even in his semi consious state that hadn't sounded right to Greg. There had been no woman, he was sure of that. And even if there had been, he had been unconsious for several hours before the ambulance arrived.

He thought about that constantly, his brain trying to make sense of the memories he thought he had. He had almost dismissed it as a trick of his mind. An hallucination brought on by the cold.

When he woke up in his room after surgery there was a heavy, dark grey coat hanging beside his bed, the label from a tailor he had never heard of, and the quality more than he could ever afford. A thick, cream envelope was in the pocket. When he opened it there was just a card in neart, looping scripting.

'I promised you a new one.'

Greg smilled and lifted the sleeve of the coat to his face. It smelled like oranges.


End file.
